Dice

come on, dad, do a dance.
shake it, as they say, like i’ve
never seen.  you know,
a native one, a movie scene.
 
i don’t know a thing about
it, except that i should know
a thing about it.

Ryantopolis:  somewhere gray.
half factory sufferer, half obsolete pitchfork
with rights to factories...  massah, he ‘n’ 
	the angels – like schoolin’ said – 
all dance at night,

a pale ball on the rampart.  
	i’m miles away, 
	brushing against his jacket
and faintly wishing myself in half,
for a lamp-lit brawl.

between graffiti types,
you got me tagging Cockney:
all rhy-thm, no soul.  danceless duke
musing on Dublin, on Stockholm
(&with good reason).
i saved your land for smoke and drunk tanks,

you rat bastard.  stealthy binger.
call me 50 Percent, Mr. No-Contest,
emancipated and deaf.
	i have a half-dead tongue,
	penitent and shivering,
		that never speaks of home.